Mister and Missus By E L James - 65

“Do you want me to wait?” Maxim asks. They’re standing on an ornate mosaic floor in the impressive foyer of the Royal College of Music, and Alessia’s audition is in forty minutes.

“I don’t know how long this will take. But I’ll be okay.” Alessia ignores her racing heart to reassure him. “You have work to do. I’ll come to your office afterwards.”

He frowns, unsure, and she places her hand on his chest, feeling the heat from his body through his shirt.

Comforted by his warmth, her heart rate slows to something approximating its usual rhythm. “I’ll be okay,” she repeats and tilts her head back for a kiss.

“Okay. I’ll see you at the office. Good luck,” he says and brushes his lips against hers. “As we say here, break a leg.”

Alessia’s brow creases and she looks down at her feet.

Break a leg?

Maxim cups her chin with his thumb and forefinger, and lifts her gaze to bright green eyes that sparkle with humor. “It’s just an expression of good luck.”

“Oh.” Alessia returns his smile.

“Go. Warm up. You’ve got this.”

Alessia takes her bag, and with a final glance at her handsome husband, she follows the young student who’s been patiently waiting for her.

They head up two flights of stairs and along a corridor. The student introduces himself as Paolo and welcomes her to the college. He’s casually dressed in jeans and a sweater, and Alessia hopes she’s not too smart in her black trouser suit. He stops and opens one of the doors to a small rehearsal room. “You can warm up here. I’ll be back to take you to the audition in about twenty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Alessia says, looking around the intimate space but, more importantly, at the upright Steinway and stool. They’re the only pieces of furniture in the room. Paolo closes the door, and Alessia places her bag on the floor and sits on the stool.

This is it. She’s here. She’s practiced and practiced and practiced some more. She knows her pieces backward. She’s watched YouTube video after YouTube video on audition techniques and what to expect. She’s ready.

Taking a deep breath, she places her hands on the keys and launches into her warm-up… loving that the piano’s tone is warm and immediate in this soundproofed cocoon.

In the cab on the way to the office, my phone buzzes, and I think it might be Alessia. No. It’s another text from Caroline. She’s sent me a few over the last few days begging for feedback on her designs.

For heaven’s sake, we’re meeting later this morning. I didn’t know she was professionally so needy! Now she’s trying a different tack.

How was Cornwall?

A303 or M5/M4?

In spite of myself, her text makes me laugh.

You know I hate the A303

It’s for pensioners!

See you later

My eyes stray to the battered briefcase beside me on the seat. Within it are my notes from our meeting with Jem Gladwell, which I want to share with Oliver, and also Kit’s journal—its mere existence searing a hole in my conscience and nagging me.

Should I read it?

Fuck.

Maybe I should burn it?

Alessia dampens down her nerves and steps into the audition room to meet a flank of the faculty, two men and a woman, sitting behind a long table. This room is airier than the last—big enough to house the Steinway grand piano in the center of the room—and there’s a large sash window that looks out over the Royal Albert Hall.

The older man rises from behind the table. “Alessia Trevelyan. Welcome. I’m Professor Laithwaite, and I’m joined by Professors Carusi and Stells.”

Alessia takes his offered hand. “Good morning, Professor. Good morning,” she says to the other staff, who offer her smiles in greeting.

“Do you have your music?”

“Yes.” From her bag, she retrieves all the scores and places them on the table in front of the tutors.

“Please take a seat at the piano.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh. What’s this?” Professor Carusi asks as she looks at one of the scores. “Valle e Vogël?”

“Yes. By an Albanian composer. Feim Ibrahimi.”

“Please. It’s short. Let’s hear it. And then move onto the Liszt.”

Alessia nods, pleased that they want to hear from one of her country’s leading composers. She takes a deep breath and places her fingers on the keys, the familiarity of the ivories calming her, and starts to play. The music is bright and expressive, an homage to an Albanian folk song darting through the room in shades of purples and blues, morphing into paler blue colors. Once the final notes fade, Alessia places her hands on her lap, takes another deep breath, and begins the Liszt… the notes taking her back to the apartment in Chelsea, with the snow swirling through the window as she played for Maxim that first time.

“That’s enough, thank you,” Professor Laithwaite interrupts at the beginning of the penultimate crescendo.

“Oh.”

“The Beethoven. I’d like to hear that from the thirty-seventh bar,” Stells says.

“Okay,” Alessia says, feeling a little shaken. Did they hate it? Is she bad?

She blows out a breath while her mind zips through the hues of the score to the thirty-seventh bar. She settles her hands on the keys once more, then starts pouring her heart and soul into the rest of the piece while the colors flare in angry reds and oranges around her.

Oliver’s beaming smile and hearty handshake imply that he’s delighted to see me. “What did you think of Gladwell?” he asks.

“I thought he was fantastic. What’s more, so did our tenants.”

Oliver claps his hands together in an unusual and spontaneous act of delight. “Michael has been trying to get this regenerative farming idea off the ground for over a year.”

“He didn’t tell me that.”

“Yes. Kit just wasn’t interested.” Oliver shakes his head and looks away as if he’s embarrassed or he’s said too much, and I realize he doesn’t want to be disloyal to his friend, my brother.

“Well, I think Kit missed a trick. I’m excited about it. Our next move is to galvanize the tenants at Angwin and Tyok. Gladwell’s up for it. And we should talk in more depth about purchasing or leasing some capital equipment. It’s going to be pricey.”

“We can budget for it. I’ll talk to each of the estate managers and get a date in.”

“Great. Anything pressing?”

“Just the interior design for the mansion block.”

“Caro?”

“Yes.” And I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say that word with such weariness.

“Is there a problem?”

“No. Of course not.” Oliver clears his throat, and I make my way into my office.

That was weird.

My first task is to call Leticia and tell her about Sergeant Nancarrow’s news.

“And why do you want to study at the Royal College of Music?” Professor Carusi asks, her shrewd eyes assessing Alessia.

“I need a backbone to my music. My musical education so far has been…um…quite local. No, parochial, and I know I can take it further with the right tuition.”

“Where do you think you need help?”

“With my technique. I want to develop my voice, my playing. And my musical vocabulary.”

“To what end?” asks Professor Stells.

“I would love to perform. All over the world.”

Alessia cannot believe she’s said that out loud.

They nod as if this might be a possibility, and Alessia is thrilled at the thought. She doesn’t want to tell them that the other reason she needs to be there is because she needs a student visa.

“Well, thank you for coming to see us. Are you auditioning for other conservatoires?”

“I am.”

Professor Laithwaite nods. “You’ll be hearing from us.”

Alessia has no idea if it went well, but she’s relieved it’s over. She knows she played well… but was it good enough? In the cab, on a whim, she calls her great-uncle on FaceTime.

“Alessia, my darling. How are you?”

She fills him in on the past week in Cornwall and tells him about her audition.

“Who did you see?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who auditioned you?”

Alessia tells him.

“Hmm… All good people. You’ll do fine. I know it. Have you told your mother? She’ll be thrilled. We’ve spoken often, though her English is not as good as yours.”

Alessia grins, thrilled that they have been in touch with each other. “No. I will call her now.”

“Well, good luck, my dear. Let me know how you get on and when I can see you again.”

Next, she calls her mother to share her news.

At my conference table, Caroline talks Oliver and me through her moodboards and designs, and it’s clear she’s put a great deal of thought into her process. The first option is opulent but elegant; the second, upscale, warm but airy; the third, bold but minimalist. I have to admit, they’re all quite different but clever. Caro has excellent taste.

“I think I prefer the second option.” It’s not the most expensive, but not the cheapest either. I glance at Oliver to see if he’s on the same page.

“I concur,” Oliver says, nodding.

“Good. Let’s do it. I’ll crack on.” Caroline preens.

“Great. If you’ll excuse me.” Oliver rises from the table and leaves.

Caroline watches him go with a frown. She turns back to me. “So, how was Cornwall? How did Alessia fit in?”

“Great. Thanks. It was cool to be back. Alessia was and is amazing. Helped with lambing.”

“Hmm… really?” Caro frowns.

Ignoring her reaction, I continue, “Yes. She knew exactly what to do. In fact, she wants to return to Cornwall as soon as possible. I think she’s more comfortable at the Hall.”

“Why wouldn’t she be? She’s waited on hand and foot, and it’s very rural.”

“Actually, she’s not waited on hand and foot,” I snap. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Maxim. Give your hackles a rest. I think she’s a little daunted by London life, that’s all. And who wouldn’t be? She does seem to attract a great deal of attention when she’s here. It’s not a surprise,” Caroline mutters and begins to pack her portfolio away.

Rather than provoke an argument, I change the subject. “I’m going to sell Kit’s car collection. Are there any that you’d like to keep?”

She pauses mid-packing as if considering the option, then shakes her head. “No. That was Kit’s thing. Not mine.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods. “I should move out of the countess’s rooms,” she adds, a little sadly.

“There’s no hurry. We’ve not moved from my room.”

“Oh.” She raises her eyebrows.

See, Alessia’s not the mercenary little social-climbing, point-scorer you think, Caro!

“So, what’s on the agenda while you’re here?”

“I don’t know how long we’re going to stay. Alessia has auditions at the RCM, RAM, Guildhall, and somewhere else. I can’t remember.”

“All of them!”

“Yes. She’s talented. And she needs to be offered a place so I can secure her a visa. Otherwise, she’ll have to return to Albania for a month or so. And neither of us want that.”

Caroline rolls her eyes. “For heaven’s sake. It’s not like she’s going to be sponging off the state. I don’t know why it’s so difficult.”

I sigh. “Me neither. It’s the Hostile Environment that our government thinks we need. It’s extremely bloody irritating.”

“Agreed.” She grabs her portfolio and rounds the table, only to stop in her tracks as she spies Kit’s journal on my desk.

Hell. I should have put it away.

She pales instantly. Her cheeks ashen. “You found it,” she says in a small voice that speaks volumes.

“Yes. It was in a locked drawer in Kit’s desk at the Hall.”

She turns her face to mine, her eyes wide and fearful, and growing larger and darker as the seconds tick by—and we gaze at each other as the air is slowly sucked from the room by the weight of this small battered leather tome. By the weight of Kit’s final written words.

“Say something,” she whispers.

“What is there to say, Caro?” I shrug. This is none of my business.

“You’ve read it?”

I open my mouth and close it again.

“Maxim. Tell me!”

And I know she’ll hound me until she has the truth.

“You did. I can tell. I can always read you.”

Fuck. “The last entry.”

She swallows. “What did it say?” Her words are barely audible.

There’s a knock at the door, and Oliver opens it, radiating polite smiles and fucking good cheer as he ushers Alessia inside. My spirits soar as she walks into the room. My wife is the cavalry, saving me from a beyond-awkward conversation.

“Am I interrupting?” Alessia asks, not unkindly.

“No. Of course not.” Delighted, I step toward her and kiss her lightly on her lips. Everyone else disappears. “How was it?”

She shrugs but smiles. “I don’t know. We shall see. I like your office.” She looks around me. “Hello, Caroline,” she says sweetly.

“Alessia, darling. How are you?” Caroline seems to recover her fortitude and steps forward to give my wife a kiss on each cheek.

Oliver has left the room.

“Caroline was just showing Oliver and me the designs for the mansion block refurbishment I’ve been telling you about.”

Alessia casts dark eyes at me and nods, but there’s a question in her expression.

Fuck. She knows something’s going down.

I haven’t mentioned Kit’s last written words to Alessia, partly because it’s none of my business, let alone my wife’s, and partly because I don’t know what she’d think of me invading Kit’s privacy. But mainly because Alessia’s opinion of Caroline is tentative at best—I’ve worked that out for myself—and I don’t want to damage it any further.

“I’d better go. Oh, I meant to tell you,” Caroline says, her voice clipped, and she tosses her hair to one side, having reverted to her usual cool persona. “Your mother’s finally been in touch.”

Oh! “She has?”

“She wants to postpone Kit’s memorial until the autumn.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I think it’s a bit late. You know, it’s a form of closure. A way to say a final goodbye.” She looks away, probably to hide her emotion or her shame, I don’t know.

“Yes, of course. We should talk to her. I wonder what Maryanne thinks?”

Caro nods. Her lips clamp together as if containing her grief. And I have to remember that Kit found out Caro was unfaithful—because she sure puts on a good show of the grieving widow.

“Is Rowena in London?” Alessia asks.

“She is.”

Alessia looks from Caro to me. “You should talk to her. And maybe persuade her that…um…more soon. No. Sooner is better.”

“She’s coming over this evening. Maybe you’d like to join us for dinner,” Caro offers.

“We’d like that very much,” Alessia says without hesitation, taking hold of my hand so I can’t object.

What?